


each day's madness, here in a poisoned world

by Bluebellepeppers



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bilbo is depressed and grieving, Hallucinations, Hallucinations caused by grief and loneliness, M/M, Trigger Warning: Delusions, bilbo doesn't know that though, thorin goes to the shire, trans bilbo implied
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:13:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27735127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bluebellepeppers/pseuds/Bluebellepeppers
Summary: Bilbo returns to the Shire, convinced that Thorin and his nephews are dead. Thorin shows up on his doorstep, and Bilbo is convinced that Thorin is a ghost.
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield
Comments: 11
Kudos: 182





	each day's madness, here in a poisoned world

Bilbo did not stay for the funeral. He packed his bags the night he saw Thorin die. No kind words could convince him to stay, and so with a heavy bag and a heavier heart, Gandalf led him to the Shire.   
Bilbo arrived in the Shire in a too big coat with a chest full of gold. He let his hair grow long, and took to wearing it back with a clasp, and carried Sting with a new confidence no one liked.   
Lobelia called him mad. Some offered “senile” and others offered “queer”. The technicalities of which word they settled on did not matter, because it all meant the same. Bilbo Baggins had gone off the deep end, and there would be no bringing him back.   
But in the end they just called him “that one” with a nod and a tsk. 

He paid them no mind in then, nor did he blame any of them. What could the average hobbit understand of the great wide world, and the things that he met on his travels? Nothing, if even Bilbo had trouble explaining it himself. Even Hamfast, for all his kindness, could only nod and agree with whatever Bilbo claimed.

Of course, his empty smial was a point of contention. In the beginning, most called him all sorts of things just because he had the audacity to come home alive and reclaim his birthright. But as most of his things were, eventually, returned, he didn’t much hold against a missing spoon nor pillowcase.   
How could he, when his things didn’t matter in the same way. The armchair by the fire now gave him back aches, and the blanket his mother knitted felt unwelcome to his touch. He often caught himself muttering about odd things, a chip in a plate that had been there since he was born, or a dent in the wall that had been along for his childhood.   
And when he muttered, they called him mad. 

But he tried. For the first week or two, he tried. He went to tea and entertained relatives, and went to parties and told tales. If that was one thing that brought him joy, it was talking of dragons and dwarves to children, their bright faces still safe from the distrustful thoughts of their parents. In those moments, he could belong.   
But then the story and the moment would end. And he would go home, alone, to an empty smial built for a family. He would sleep in a bed made for two, eat at a table made for many, and read in a living room built for the sound of children’s feet. 

His nightmares came to visit first. Of dragonfire and stone, dark tombs and dead princes. He would wake, gasping for air, and completely drenched in sweat. And it only got worse with time.   
It was one of those nights, not even a full month after he had come home. He had pushed away sleep for 3 days before he finally crashed, and he crashed hard. And the nightmares retaliated for his absence. It was also the first night he heard _him_.  
Bilbo shot up in bed, desperately gulping for air. It was a new nightmare that he visited. This time, instead of the distorted faces of Fili and Kili, he dreamt of Thorin and orcs. Of parting words and unspoken promises, and angry accusations of betrayal.   
Harsh words echoed in his head as he sat in the dark. The damp sweat seeped in his nightshirt and began to itch. He shakily moved his covers away and rose from his bed. Gently padding over to the chest in his room, he replaced his nightshirt with a clean one.   
Damn, it was the last one. He grumbled under his breath as he made his way back to bed. Then he heard it. An achingly familiar laugh, and words that he couldn’t make out. He froze. It was coming from outside his door. He took Sting, which he kept stored next to his bed, and opened his door.   
The voice, and now he was sure that it was Thorin’s, continued from down the hall.   
He slept in the second largest room in the house, making his trip down the hall quick. A light flickered from around the corner, and he paused. Thorin’s voice was still talking. But he could not make out any discernible words.   
He sprung around the corner, his sword pointed at the source of the noise. 

“Thorin?” 

The dining room was empty. The light he had seen was filtering in through a small window, and it shone on the large, empty table. The flickering was a branch in the window, foolishly mistaken for a person walking around. He shakily lowered his blade, and dropped it. Sting made a loud clang, and it echoed through the room.   
Bilbo sank to the floor. He wanted to cry, so he laughed. So it was true, his family was right. He was going mad. Or maybe he had already gone mad, he wasn’t sure what the qualifications were. Certainly laughing to himself at near 2 in the morning was clear enough.

And then he cried. He let the tightness around his shoulders fall, and crawled into a ball. His shoulders shook with the effort. If anyone had seen him, and he wouldn't ever let anyone ever see such a thing, but if they had they would’ve feared for his heart.   
But soon after a sense of peace fell over him as he cried, and slowly his tears dried themselves. He found himself propped back up against the wall, and rested his head against it.   
The light of the window set along his form. He could pick out scars, pieces of himself that he had given to his journey. There was a silvery scar running along his leg, where he had cut himself by accident with Sting. He idly traced it with his fingers. He smiled sadly. Dwalin had always warned he would hurt himself before he managed to take down anything else.   
He fell asleep against his dining room wall. 

His nightmares continued, but soon they fell into the rest of his life. Sometimes he would avoid sleep for a few days until Thorin’s voice showed up, and then he would go to bed, cotton pieces stuffed in his ears.   
Sometimes he heard Kili, or Fili, calling after him in the hallway. Everytime he would remind himself that they weren’t there, and everytime he would check anyway. But the hall was always empty. 

Bilbo made no mention of his hallucinations to anyone, not even Hamfast. For if he did, they would have good reason to take his home and birthright, and he would end up in the Big Smial, being watched by some young nurse who thought he made up dragons and dwarves and wizards.   
And he could not do that. So he resolved himself to slowly going mad in his home, and letting everyone else deal with the consequences once he truly was gone.   
So like the nightmares, the voices faded into the background and became normal. 

Gandalf came to visit a month after Bilbo arrived in the Shire. They spoke little, and smoked on his porch much.   
Gandalf, to his credit, didn’t push too hard.   
“I’ve heard rumors of a “Mad Baggins” running these parts.” Gandalf said out the blue. Bilbo bristled slightly at the term, and if Gandalf noticed he didn’t comment. But one look at the old wizard told Bilbo that he was only making conversation, and a jovial one at that.   
“So that's the word they chose to call me this week.” Bilbo said, forcing a small chuckle.   
Gandalf only hummed in response. 

“I think it’s my hair. They don’t know what to do with it. First I fought so much to be recognized as a man and now I’ve grown it like a lass. Their small minds can’t handle it.” Bilbo smirked and ambled along his words as if they had no real meaning to him. He had learned to do that long ago, to hide how he felt when exposed to others. A trick his mother taught him.   
Gandalf raised an eyebrow. “You don’t give yourself enough credit. I think the dwarf clothes and pony you rode in on brought on any true cries of madness.”   
“Yes, well.” Was all Bilbo said.   
Gandalf dropped whatever he was going to say next, and the two smoked in silence till the sun fell behind the hill of Bag End. 

Bilbo was left alone after the grey wizard left the Shire. He always said he liked it that way, and so for once the hobbits of Hobbiton listened.   
He did not like it. Time did not heal all wounds, and one he found gaping was the need for companionship.   
A year sleeping next to more than a dozen warm, loud bodies had changed him. In truth, the friendship and near constant companionship of his dwarves left him feeling cold in his home. He missed turning a corner and running into someone, he missed writing with Ori and sewing with Dori and cooking with Bombur. Bofur’s jokes and Nori’s pranks and the inevitable of the princes being wrapped up in one or the other. He missed his dwarves. 

Bilbo was lonely, but no hobbit could help. So he stopped trying. He stopped going to visit his family or going to parties or entertaining. He didn’t solve quarrels or tell stories. Even basic things like shopping at the market stopped. Hamfast began to bring around food if only to make sure Bilbo was still alive, and Bilbo left money for him on the step.   
And when Bilbo couldn’t or wouldn’t sleep, he gardened. Late at night, by the sliver of the moon or a dim lamp. He watered his tomatoes at midnight, and planted flowers as the early birds began to cry. And then he would slip back into his home, the toiled dirt the only evidence he was there. 

He slept during the day, working only in the late evening on what he said was his book. What it was was a scribbling of his memories, usually written after a terrible dream. They tended to run happy and childish, and spoke nothing of hardship or horrors. Instead of writing about the blood and battles, he spent pages on the countryside and trees. He talked about the black emperors in Mirkwood, and didn’t mention the weeks of hunger and desperation within the elf king's palace. He ignored weeks of toil and walking, and focused on the great honeybees in Beorn’s garden.   
And he hardly mentioned Thorin if he could help it. Thorin took on a distorted figure, older and prouder. He became a distant figure, with a white beard and a bent face. He spoke more than he truly did, and monologued when Bilbo could do nothing else. Thorin became kinder in his words, softened by Bilbo’s memory and a haze of tears.   
Most of the dwarves were lost in his pursuit of happiness. It hurt him to write of their personalities, of little occurrences and interactions. So he kept it to himself, a treasure that only he could appreciate. Even if it hurt too much to appreciate.   
Sometimes he heard murmuring over his shoulder, correcting something he’d written. That something was off or a joke he could throw in. Sometimes he listened. Often the murmurs sounded of Fili, and Kili, and on a rare moment Thorin. None of them liked his description of Thorin much, but that was one thing he would not budge. So the voices would fall silent. 

He passed months like that. The only reason he stopped gardening was when the cold became too much and a thick layer of snow covered the ground. He drilled on with his story, if only to get it done. Writing no longer brought him joy, and was simply something to keep him out of bed for an hour or two. And much else of his life was ignored. 

And in all the months he spent in his smial, not one word was written to his dwarves. Oh he wanted to, on dark nights and quiet mornings. But no words could bring back the dead. To write about trivial things seemed disrespectful.   
He only received two letters before they stopped coming. They were from Bofur, talking about a new toyshop he opened and how his brother and cousin were doing. He didn’t mention who was ruling nor how the kingdom fared. But Bilbo knew Dain took over, and he didn’t need the reminder, so he was grateful.   
But no one else wrote and he didn’t try.   
So he continued on his year in silence. 

A year after he returned from the shire, a knock sounded at the door. It wasn’t Hamfast, with his light taps, but a deep rattling of the door. Not angry, but strong.   
Bilbo pulled his head up from his desk. He had been sketching out the misty mountains and fallen asleep, likely from the last week of no sleep. The knock sounded again and he groaned.   
He rubbed his eyes and rose, creeping to the door. It couldn’t be anyone he knew, by the placement of the knock and the heaviness of it. Once again he grumbled about replacing the glass in the peephole of his door. It had become hazy and ruptured in its age, and could only give a vague glimpse of blurred color through it.   
Bilbo pulled the door open as the third knock began to rang, prepared to bite the head off of whoever dared stand on his doorstep. But his words clogged his throat as he stared at who was in front of him.   
Thorin Oakenshield stood on his doorstep. 

He shouldn’t have been surprised, he thought later. It was only a matter of time before the voices that he heard gained a body. It was the surprising inaccuracy of his vision that got him. This Thorin almost looked healthy, and had a heavy limp. His beard was whiter than before, more grey and white than black, which was clearly from Bilbo’s softened version of Thorin that he wrote so much of. He wore blue, as always, and carried Orcrist by his side.   
But when the vision of Thorin politely asked to come in, he mutely stood aside and let him in. He did not speak, for if he was truly now seeing things, he couldn’t start talking to them. That would be the end of him. He shut the door behind his hallucination, and left it standing in his hallway.   
Bilbo went to his bed and promptly crawled in. He knew that lack of sleep would make his already slipping brain go even worse, and surely when he woke the next evening, there would be no dead king standing in his home. 

When Bilbo woke the next evening, he saw no evidence of his vision from the night before. They hid well in his own belongings. The hall, much like the rest of Bilbo’s life, had fallen into disuse. Cluttered and dusty, where a pair of dwarven boots and a coat were easily missed. His mother would’ve been horrified.   
He made a meal. It wasn’t breakfast as it was near nighttime, but calling it supper felt wrong. He ate in the silence of his home. It appeared as though sleep had fixed his mind for the time being, and he set about working on his book. 

It was nighttime when he heard a voice again. It was Thorin’s, and it came from around the corner. He ignored it. Bilbo was determined to finish his writing, and no hallucination would pull him away.   
So he didn’t notice when the voice got closer or when it called his name. 

“Bilbo?” The voice called again, this time grazing his ear. The hobbit flinched in his seat. Usually the voices were not so loud nor insistent. Normally they were a comfort, not a distraction. Against his better judgement he paused in writing and glanced over his shoulder.   
The apparition was back. The form of Thorin stood in the corner of his office, watching him with those familiar blue eyes. Bilbo quickly turned back to his work. Whatever was happening, he would have no part in it. 

“Please, talk to me.” The vision begged. If Bilbo closed his eyes, it almost sounded real. Almost. He could respond and when he opened his eyes, he would be back in his company of dwarves, sitting around a fire.   
But he knew better, and he did not respond. He kept his head bent down, scribbling away as if deep in thought. When he dared look up again, there was no dead king in his office. 

Bilbo didn’t, or rather, couldn’t, notice as things began to shift in his smial. A missing loaf of bread here, and a moved chair there. If he found pieces of clean clothes that he hadn’t washed and food that he didn’t remember cooking, he suspected his slipping mind. He convinced himself that he must be doing it, and then forgetting. 

The apparition appeared to him more and more, and his resolution shook with every moment. It always begged him to speak, or apologized for past wrongs, and rarely was the furious, stoic king he remembered from before. 

Then, three weeks after Thorin’s ghost showed up, Bilbo spoke to it.   
He was gardening, late at night as always, and Thorin’s ghost reappeared. He didn’t see where the vision came from, only that when he turned to get the watering can it was standing by the gate. Watching him.   
It always stared at him. The blue eyes that Bilbo loved in life always seemed to bore into his skull, no matter how real he felt the vision was.   
He grabbed the can and hastily turned back to his tomatoes. The moonlight lit his garden, giving stark shadows to his plants. Even in the dark, it was wonderful to the eye. He watered the tomatoes and an adjacent marigold. The vision followed and stood in front of his plants, and watched.   
And something clicked within him. He knew that he would be alone for the rest of his life, and if talking to a ghost kept him from being lonely, then so be it. It wasn’t as if anyone would see him doing it. Bilbo took a deep breath, preparing himself to speak. He rarely did those days, and only as much as he could get by with Hamfast.   
“The marigold keeps tomato pests away.” He explained, his eyes trained on the yellow flower. His voice cracked from disuse. The water ran out and he turned to return the can to its proper spot.   
He left the ghost where it was and returned into his home. He paused at the doorway, and glanced back. The ghost was in the same spot he left him. The form of Thorin was crouched over his marigolds, and gently brushing the petals of the flower. Bilbo stopped and watched his dead friend for a moment and sighed. A tightness began to form around his eyes, and he wiped away an errant tear before stepping into his home and shutting the door. And if he left the door unlocked in some foolish notion, that was his business.

The next day Thorin’s ghost joined him for breakfast. Bilbo couldn’t call the ghost Thorin, even if they were slowly getting on speaking terms. Whatever his mind conjured up to replace the dead king, it was never going to be the same. No matter how real it seemed, this was not the same Thorin that he left in the halls of Erebor’s dead.   
The ghost stared at him throughout his breakfast and well into his second. It didn’t eat in front of him hardly ever, even though surely a hallucination could make fake food easily enough. Instead, it watched him in silence. So Bilbo would have to take it upon himself to fix it, if his resolution to avoid loneliness with a ghost was going to stand.   
“Hamfast is bringing by the groceries later today.” He offered, although if the vision was of his own mind, it would surely know that already. Bilbo then took a large bite out of his strawberry jam toast and chewed. He propped his feet up on the bench where he sat and stared back at the ghost, intent to incite a reaction.   
The thing seemed at loss for words. Bilbo rationalized that after ignoring this part of his mind for so long, he didn’t know how to run it yet. He tried again.  
"I’m working on a chapter of my book. The one about my little stint in Mirkwood.”

“Our.”   
Ah, so that would do the trick.   
“Pardon?” Bilbo asked. He took another slice of toast from the table and took a great bite. It was blackberry jam this time.   
“Our time in Mirkwood. I was there too.” The ghost said, frowning in such a Thorin way that took Bilbo’s breath away. 

Bilbo smiled sadly as he ate his toast.   
“Of course. How could I forget.”

They didn’t speak again for the rest of the day. Whatever his mind was trying to tell him, it was taking a different approach. The ghost no longer begged nor proclaimed anything, instead took what conversation he offered and watched. 

Sometimes Bilbo would sit and stare back. He didn’t know what he was looking for, but he searched nonetheless. Thorin would’ve laughed at the two of them (even though Bilbo knew it to be a figment of his mind, he soon considered the ghost another person), sitting silently and staring at each other. But this distorted figure of Thorin didn’t laugh.   
The opportunity to appreciate his friend again was not lost on him, and Bilbo began to relish these moments, as uncomfortable as they were. The ghost still wore the same as the day he had appeared, traveling clothes unfamiliar to Bilbo and yet fitting of a dwarven king. Thorin would be proud to know how Bilbo remembered him, even if Bilbo’s mind had given him a limp.   
He found his eyes most drawn to the ghost’s face. It looked like Thorin, of course, but it had...a more pleasant quality than he seemed to remember. The lines around his mouth and forehead spoke of an older age than Bilbo could recall, but he was relaxed. His face had the quality that spoke of a hidden smile, of a peaceful existence. Something Thorin certainly didn’t have in life.   
But he wasn’t completely unrecognizable. When the ghost stared at him for longer than comfortable, and the silence would span on for eons, a familiar pinch would grace his face. Something Bilbo knew he shouldn’t take comfort in, and yet he did. 

One evening, weary of silence and loneliness, he brought a book to their staring contest. The ghost watched him curiously as he cracked the tomb open and began to read aloud. It was an old elven story, and it had been his mother’s favorite. The book spoke of Beren and Luthien, a elf maiden and a man who fell in love and went through great trials. Bilbo would never admit it, but the story always lended itself to his own romantic heart, as buried deep down as it was.   
The ghost king did not protest the story, despite it’s elven roots. Perhaps his mind was being kind, or perhaps some part of Bilbo thought that Thorin would’ve liked the particular story. He had always felt that Thorin had been somewhat a secret romantic, beneath his gruff exterior.  
Either way, the ghost seemed to intently listen to Bilbo’s words. He began to inch closer as Bilbo read aloud. First he sat in the chair across the room, his usual haunt, and then he came closer until he was seated at the fireplace beside Bilbo. He was almost close enough to touch, his hair gleaming in the fire light.  
Bilbo wanted to reach out, to test the limits of where his mind would take him. But he restrained himself, and tried to focus on the words at hand. He spoke of meetings in a forest and love at first sight, and the ghost smiled. Bilbo would glance up from time to time and smile back, and in the warmth of these moments the world felt right.   
But words of a forbidding quest, a surety of death, sobered them both. His voice stuttered only slightly as he spoke of Beren’s death and Luthien’s grief, and only cracked once as he explained that they were returned to life by the gods. If only such things came more often than once in an age.  
The night darkened around them, although Bilbo didn’t much notice. Soon the light of the fire flickered across the dark room, leaving pretty shadows across the ghost’s face.   
He closed the book with a sigh. Thorin’s ghost was still sitting at the fireplace, and his gaze rested on Bilbo. The air was chilled, and Bilbo’s throat tightened.   
“Thank you.” The ghost said.   
The deep rumbling of Thorin’s voice seeped into Bilbo’s mind, and once again he found himself fighting tears. Once again he was tempted to reach out his hand, to take the last leap and plunge into madness. But he didn’t.   
Bilbo rose from his chair, his gaze set intently on his feet. He clutched his book to his chest and muttered words of parting before escaping to his room. As his bedroom door shut behind the hobbit, he sagged against it and began to cry. 

After the night that Bilbo read of Beren and Luthien, things became easier, in a particular sense. The spell seemed to break, and the ghost’s resistance to speaking vanished. In its place was chatter of which Bilbo had never experienced from Thorin in the past.   
The ghost spoke proudly of Erebor, and his nephews, and by Yavanna did it hurt. Bilbo’s mind had turned cruel, and the ghost talked as if no one had died. His eyes shone as he talked about the great halls, and how Kili was maturing and that Fili had taken to ruling well. He spoke of the caravans that poured into the city, and dwarrow of the council who made such caravans possible. He spoke of people Bilbo had never known.   
Every conversation, Bilbo’s heart hurt, but with each one, it hurt a little less. Conversation was a loose term, as Bilbo could only nod or grunt in affirmative. He would not let himself play make believe more than he already was, and that extended to talking about dead princes and halls the ghost had barely known.   
It seemed that Thorin’s ghost slowly began to recognize Bilbo’s refusal, as the stories began to slowly taper off. When Bilbo did speak back, it was on the topics of gardening and writing and sometimes, when he felt as if it truly was Thorin talking back, reminiscing of days past. Topics he felt were safe, and likely to not leave him a bundle of nerves.   
Otherwise, life sloughed on for the hobbit. He wrote, slept and ate, although he slept the most. His garden slowly fell to the wayside, although he always checked on the oak tree bud that he had planted. Hamfast brought food more and more weeks apart, and Bilbo’s connection to the world dimmed even more. 

He was writing one night, not of anything in particular but the way writers do when they’re stuck. It was a snippet of conversation, which ran along the lines of many he had had with Big Folks, trying to explain what exactly he was. And once again, he did not hear his name called until the ghost was upon him again.   
“Bilbo?”, Came the voice behind him. It was hesitant this time, the edges sharp but brittle.   
He grunted in response, his mind still focused on the task at hand. 

“Bilbo, when was the last time you ate.” The voice asked again. It had Thorin written all over it.   
Bilbo paused for a moment. He couldn’t, actually, recall if he had eaten today. The hobbit had slept late and was working even later, and he wasn’t sure if it was even the same day anymore.   
“Don’t worry about it.” He finally replied. Food wasn’t necessary for his task, but peace and quiet was absolutely required.   
“You need to eat.” Sighed the voice.   
Bilbo didn’t respond. Maybe silence would encourage the voice to leave him alone. 

“I won’t give you quiet until you eat something substantial.” It said, and this time the ghost moved to stand next to Bilbo’s chair. He reached down, and to Bilbo’s mild surprise, delicately pulled the quill from his hand. He had wanted to touch the ghost many times, just to see what would happen. Apparently his mind wasn’t going to wait for him to catch up.   
Bilbo sighed. There wasn’t much to be done if his mind was fighting him, and with that in mind he rose from his seat. He ignored the ghost and wandered into his kitchen, and began to search for some jam and toast.   
“You need to eat more than bread and jam.” The ghost said, watching him from the doorway. Bilbo ignored him. Toast with jam was exactly the right meal to have at any time of day, and no one could stop him.   
Again, his mind betrayed him. A strong hand landed on his shoulder, causing Bilbo to stiffen. He turned to face the owner, and yes, it was still Thorin’s ghost, haunting him to no end.   
The ghost plucked his toast out of his hand and frowned, and then to Bilbo’s horror, took a dwarf sized bite out of it.   
“You need to eat something with meat.” The ghost said around a mouthful of food. 

“Oh why couldn’t you stay buried and let me eat in peace.” Bilbo snapped, before shoving the hand off his shoulder and stalking to his pantry. He kept dried meats there, and soon returned with a small plate of dried pork. The ghost was still standing where he left him, and a peculiar look was on his face.   
“There, happy?” He growled. He took a great bite just to show his point and sat down at his breakfast table in a huff. To think ghosts were ordering about the living. Ridiculous. 

The ghost did not move to join him, something he had taken to doing once they were on speaking terms. In fact, he seemed frozen to the spot, and Bilbo idly wondered if perhaps he was stuck. Could ghosts get stuck?   
“Well?” Bilbo snorted, in between his bites of food.   
After a moment the ghost finally spoke.   
“What...what did you mean by _stay buried_?”

Bilbo turned in his chair, and stared. His head was starting to ache.   
“I mean...you died? In the battle? And now my mind’s made up some sort of fake you as a ghost and I have to deal with the consequences.”

“You think...that I’m a piece of your mind? _And dead_?” The ghost groaned into his hands. He then crossed the room and stood in front of Bilbo. Bilbo watched the color rise in the ghosts face and he let out a small chuckle. It was rather like a tea kettle about to burst. He glanced down to the clenched fists, and sighed.  
“Bilbo, I’m not dead. I am Thorin, the same one you’ve always known, and I’m sitting right in front of you.” He grabbed Bilbo’s hands in emphasis, pulling them towards himself. 

Bilbo wrenched his hands from the ghost’s and glared, before he gave a cold laugh. “If Thorin was really alive, do you think everyone wouldn’t have told me? Besides, he would be in Erebor, ruling.”   
“I wouldn’t do that, because I’m _right here_.” The ghost reached for his hands again, his eyes imploring. 

“This isn’t helping! _Don’t do that!_ ” Bilbo snapped. He slammed down his food and stalked out of the room. This ghost was overstaying his welcome. He reached his entryway and grimaced. Hamfast, in terrible timing, had knocked on the door, likely with the week’s groceries.   
Bilbo unceremoniously shoved a pile of junk out of the door way and swung the door open, and tried not to scowl. 

“Hey there Mister Baggins, I’ve got your food. Do you want me to take it to the kitchen or….?” Hamfast trailed off as he faced Bilbo. The poor fellow’s face paled, and Bilbo could feel his reputation growing fouler by the moment.   
“Oh just give it here.” Bilbo growled, and grabbed the baskets in each of his friend’s hands. He hastily turned to shut the door before a twinge of guilt stopped him, and he turned back to the gardener.   
“Thank you-.” He tried, marginally kinder than when he spoke before. But Hamfast was already halfway down the path, and made no indication that he heard the attempt.   
Bilbo slammed the door, dropping the baskets on the floor in the process. Thorin’s voice called for him in the kitchen, and he stormed off to his room. 

It was childish, fighting with a ghost. He knew that. But one thing that his brain got right was Thorin’s ability to piss Bilbo off in 5 seconds flat. It had been a humorous legend amongst the company, except for when they actually had to witness it. Then it was terrifying and was to be avoided at all cost. They had gotten better after Mirkwood. But it seemed to matter not when he was being haunted in his own damn kitchen.

And now it was coming back to bite him. Why couldn’t he just agree with the ghost and be done with it! Well, Bilbo huffed to himself, it was because he was _right_ and the irritating dwarf in his kitchen, no matter what he was, was _wrong_.  
He lay in his bed for the rest of the evening, and as he began to drift off, he heard Thorin’s voice rise in song outside his door. The tune was familiar, the same ballad that had convinced him to go to Erebor in the first place.  
Bilbo stared at his ceiling and sighed before pulling the covers up around his chin. He felt warm tears grace his face, and soon Thorin’s voice followed him into his dreams. 

The next morning he stayed in bed for as long as possible. He curled up in bed with a spare notebook he kept nearby incase of midnight ideas, and wrote. It was quiet and safe in his room, with no windows for nosy neighbors or loud birds. The bed was soft and warm, and nothing could pull him out.   
Well, almost nothing, he sighed as his stomach began to rumble, reawakened by the jerky he had managed the day before. 

He opened his door, and nearly tripped over a foot. The ghost, in all his great wisdom, was sleeping in his doorway. He had likely been there all night, and Bilbo felt a pang of guilt. The harsh words from the night before seemed over-reactive in the daylight. He poked the ghost’s shoulder.   
“Hmph?” He opened his eyes, and blinked up at Bilbo. It was alarmingly intimate, seeing Thorin barely awake and bleary. Bilbo shook his head. _The ghost_ , he corrected, _this is not Thorin_.   
“Com’n, time for you to see me eat so you’ll leave me alone.” Bilbo huffed, crossing his arms and very pointedly not looking at Th-....the ghost as he uncurled from his spot.   
He padded off to the kitchen, and soon footsteps followed behind him. Bilbo grabbed a saucepan from his dish rack and the butter, and set about making some eggs. If he was going to be watched while he ate, at least he could enjoy the food. 

They progressed much the same afterwards. Neither brought up the day before, at least on Bilbo’s part out of shame. The ghost still reminded him to eat, and Bilbo brought a new book to read aloud to their little staring contests.   
Thorin, as Bilbo finally accepted to calling him, was still very insistent that he was alive and kicking. He left touches whenever he could, and made a point of eating in front of Bilbo. In one rather gross moment, he even announced that he would be using the bathroom.   
Even if it didn’t convince Bilbo, it was certainly entertaining. 

One evening, Thorin’s current attempt seemed to be to eat everything from the table. Bilbo had indulged in cooking a proper meal for once, and the spread was beautiful. There was a great meat pie along with scalloped potatoes and well seasoned vegetables, along with fresh bread rolls. He had even made a small chocolate-strawberry cake for dessert, an old family recipe that his mother had taught him.   
He actually didn’t have a very good explanation for why Thorin was able to eat the food he cooked. Food that Thorin brought could always be fake, but made of Bilbo’s own hand?   
Bilbo shook his head. Now was no time to start considering resurrection of the dead. He had always been sensible, and he would like to stay such. Even if he was a bit mad.   
But he still enjoyed watching Thorin eat. The dwarf was like a vacuum, and nothing was safe.   
“Are you going to eat that?” Thorin asked, breaking Bilbo out of his thoughts. 

“Hm?” Bilbo glanced down to where he was pointing at the bread roll on his plate. 

Thorin seemed to take that as an affirmative, and snatched the roll off Bilbo’s plate. Bilbo stared, his mouth open wide. He felt a flush run along his neck and to his ears. To share food with another was considered incredibly intimate by Shire customs, and while there was no reason for Thorin to know that, dead or alive, Bilbo’s stomach began to flutter.   
He continued to watch in silence as Thorin finished off the food and began to clear the table. Bilbo briefly stood to help, but the dwarf gently pushed him back into his seat and insisted on “earning his room and board”. Bilbo laughed at this and helped anyway. Soon the two of them stood side by side at the sink, Thorin washing and Bilbo drying.   
He had never denied that he loved Thorin. There had been no point, as no one ever asked. But now,with his love in his kitchen, he felt no small amount of grief. This was something they could’ve had, the domesticity of it all. 

“You’re brooding.” Thorin said. He handed Bilbo a plate, and leaned his side against the sink. Bilbo watched as water began to seep into the dwarf’s tunic.  
“I don’t brood, _you_ brood.” Bilbo scowled as he dried off the plate. 

Thorin raised his eyebrows at the hobbit, but turned back to the sink to continue his work. Bilbo carefully placed the plate to the side. It was his mother’s china, with delicate flowers around the rim and a chip where Bilbo had nicked it in his youth.   
“I’m just...thinking.” Bilbo allowed.  
“About?” 

“We could’ve had all of this, at one point. If you had lived.” Bilbo whispered. He knew the reaction such words would draw, but he welcomed it. It had been far too peaceful lately.   
A loud clunk caused him to jump. Thorin had dropped the pot he was washing back into the sink and was staring at him. Bilbo expected anger, or at least annoyance. But Thorin just looked sad.   
Thorin reached up, and cradled the side of Bilbo’s face with his warm hand. Bilbo flushed, but didn’t pull away. The two stood frozen, and Bilbo’s heart sped up as he looked at Thorin. The dwarf’s blue eyes had darkened considerably, and there was something behind them that Bilbo couldn’t read. Then he glanced down at Bilbo’s lips, and he understood.   
“Please.” Bilbo said, daring to break the silence. 

It all happened in a flash. Thorin stepped forward, ducking his head down to level with Bilbo’s, and Bilbo had barely a moment to take in his face before the dwarf kissed him. It was a hesitant kiss, gently pressing against his mouth.The bristles of his beard scratched at Bilbo’s face, and he sprung into action.  
He grabbed the collar of Thorin’s jacket, pulling him down. In his surprise, Thorin went down onto his knees, making Bilbo lean down. Thorin’s other arm came around his middle, and pulled him closer. The kiss was like a cold drink on a hot summer's day, and Bilbo drank and drank.  
Somewhere in the back of his mind, someone was calling him nuts, but he didn’t really care. After all, his madness had brought him Thorin.   
They separated eventually, each retiring to their own space. Bilbo to his bedroom, and Thorin to wherever ghosts go when the one their haunting goes to sleep. But Bilbo fell asleep smiling. 

The next day, Bilbo was out in the back, gardening to his heart's content. The tomatoes had fully flourished under his care, and the oak sap had begun to shoot up into a real sprout. The earth was soft, and warm to the touch as the sun beat down on Bilbo. Humming as he worked, he watered all the plants under his care. Bilbo rose from his plot. He took a deep breath, and smiled, as it was a lovely evening, and he could smell fall becoming a reality.   
He returned his supplies and wandered back into his home, eventually returning to his kitchen. Dinner was on the horizon, and Thorin would never forgive him if Bilbo didn’t eat a proper meal.   
A soft knocking brought him out of his dinner planning. He frowned. Bilbo wasn’t expecting anyone, and certainly no one wanted to visit the mad hobbit at Bag End. Hesitantly, as he remembered the last time he answered the door, he crept towards the door. The peep hole was still smoky, as he never did get around to fixing it, and he cursed. He placed a hand on the doorknob, but paused. If it was Fili or Kili on the other side of this door, it would be the end of him. Bilbo huffed and squared his shoulders. He would not be outnumbered by ghosts.   
The knock rang again and he opened the door before the last one could fall. 

No dead prince stood on his door. It was Balin, his beard longer than Bilbo remembered and his middle softer.  
“Bilbo!” Balin happily cried, before stepping forward and taking Bilbo into a hug. The hobbit froze for only a moment, and gratefully responded in full. He could not remember the last time he had touched someone other than the ghost haunting him.   
Once the dwarf released Bilbo from his grasp, he was quickly invited inside and offered both tea and biscuits.   
“Freshly made this morning.” Bilbo said, beckoning the dwarf to sit at the little breakfast table in his kitchen. He had put fresh marigolds in a vase on it, fresh from his garden, at the suggestion- from the ghost, of course- that it would bring his mood up. Bilbo would never admit that Thorin was right, but well he was right. The cheerful gold petals did bring him joy, the way a creation delights a creator. 

Balin gratefully took both scones and tea, and ate at least three, though of course Bilbo would never count how many a guest ate, that would be rude, but Balin _had_ eaten most of them before he even started a conversation. But the reminder of his dwarf friend’s appetite did not bother him, in fact it brought a smile to his face as he remembered other occasions where it presented itself. And then he put another batch in the oven.   
“What can I do for you, my friend?” Bilbo asked, finally settling down with his own scones and tea. He sat at the table across from Balin, and moved the vase to the side, as neither could see over it to the other. Balin smiled at him, but was mid-chew and couldn’t respond.   
Bilbo laughed and ate his own scone, and they sat in companionable silence.

Finally, Balin finished his scone and spoke.   
“I just wanted to visit you. I...regret how long it’s taken for me to reach out, and felt a simple letter would not be able to fix what I’ve likely broken.” Balin let out a great sigh, as if the weight of the world was on him. And truly, the old dwarf did look perfectly miserable and much of Bilbo’s grudge, a grudge he hadn’t even been much aware of before Balin had appeared on his doorstep, crumbled under such heavy words and fell to the wayside.   
“It’s alright Balin.” He said, and the confusion on his dear friend’s face drove him to speak again.  
“I could’ve written just as well, and I didn’t, which I have regretted for quite some time. What matters is that you are here and now, and we can speak face to face.”  
And speak they did. Bilbo told what he could of his life, of the garden, which he very proudly dragged Balin outside to see, and of his book, which he did not show Balin. Balin, in turn, spoke of his own private life. Both, it seemed, avoided any topic of kings or dead loved ones.   
“And now that I’m married, I’ve felt a bit stretched thin with all my responsibilities. So this is a holiday for me as much as it is a visit to you.”   
Bilbo nodded and then froze. “Wait, did you say you got _married _? I thought you were craft bound?”  
Balin nodded. “Sharp memory. So did I, until I met my Gloria. She’s the only one in the entire world that could’ve changed my mind about being craft-bound, and she did.”__

__“That’s wonderful, Balin, truly.” Bilbo said, and he was proud that his voice quivered only slightly. He turned his head to look out the little window by their table, and blinked back tears.  
Balin watched him in silence until Bilbo turned his attention back. The dwarf looked at him with what only could be interpreted as pity, and Bilbo bristled. If there was one thing that he truly hated, it was being pitied.   
He opened his mouth to give a sharp retort, but thought better of it. He had few friends now, and it would be unwise to hurt the ones he had.   
“Bilbo? Is that Balin I hear?” Thorin’s voice rang through the smial. Bilbo winced, determined to ignore him. He didn’t need Balin to see how far he had fallen into madness, although the shrewd dwarf likely had his suspicions. _ _

__So imagine his surprise when Balin seemed to react.  
“You didn’t tell me Thorin was here?”, Balin whispered before he twisted in his seat and shouted back in response, “So that’s where you’ve been all this time.”  
Thorin rounded the corner, and grinned at his friend. _ _

__Bilbo’s face blanched.  
“You can hear him too?” He whispered, just loud enough for Balin to hear before he promptly fainted. _ _

__

__The next thing Bilbo remembered, he was laying on something remarkably warm. It was nice, and he didn’t really want to open his eyes. So he opted to listen to the muted voices over his head.  
“I’ve been trying to convince him for weeks that I’m real, but nothing worked. I even…” The deep voice that rattled in his ear faded out, and he couldn’t make out the next few words._ _

__“Mahal, Thorin, you _kissed _him? What were you thinking?” A softer voice spoke, and it took a moment for Bilbo to place it. Balin.  
What was Balin doing here? He hadn’t seen him in nearly two years. Slowly memories seemed to return to his mind, but he still struggled to remember how he ended up there.   
Someone was running fingers through his hair, and it felt very, very nice. Maybe he should just go back to sleep...___ _

____“Do you remember that myth from when we were kids? With the sleeping princess and the magic kiss?”  
The deep voice spoke again. This one Bilbo more easily placed, as Thorin’s. Wait, Thorin?   
Bilbo’s mind began to return the events of the day. _ _ _ _

____“They're called myths for a reason.” Balin snapped, before more quietly adding,  
“Did it work at least?”_ _ _ _

____“We haven’t had time to talk about it.” Came Thorin’s reply._ _ _ _

____Bilbo finally opened his eyes. He was nearly certain what had happened, and his face began to flush at the topic of their conversation. Somehow, the concept that he had been kissing a very much alive Thorin was more embarrassing than kissing a fake Thorin that he made up in his head._ _ _ _

____Balin was crouched over him, concern written plain across his face. He glared at something behind Bilbo. It seemed they were still in the kitchen, although everything looked a lot higher up than before.  
“Ah, it seems that Bilbo’s back. Good, now you two can figure it out.” He spoke, his voice hard and sharp to the touch. The dwarf swiftly rose to his feet and left the kitchen, leaving them alone. Balin had empathy for many people, but he rarely suffered fools. _ _ _ _

_____Bilbo quickly discovered that the lovely warmth that he had woken to was, in fact, Thorin’s body. The ghost- no, not a ghost Bilbo reminded himself- _Thorin_ , had pulled Bilbo up to rest against his chest after he had fainted. The hands that had been carding through his hair? Thorin’s.   
Thorin was alive. He was alive, and Bilbo had absolutely refused to see it.   
The closeness was suddenly all too much, and Bilbo tried to pull away. But Thorin only tightened his arm, which was protectively wrapped around him.   
“Are you feeling ok?” Thorin asked, and Bilbo could feel his chest reverberating with every word.   
“I- you…you’re alive.” A sense of peace settled across Bilbo and he let his head rest, listening to Thorin’s heartbeat._ _ _

**Author's Note:**

> This took over a month to write, and if you recognize part of it it's because I first posted it as a multichapter and then realized there was no way I could write that much for this idea. I hope you enjoyed it! As always comments and kudos are appreciated!


End file.
